


Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

by AngstyLlamaCrossings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Angst and Tragedy, Drug Use, Gang Leader Harry Potter, Gun Violence, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Italian Mafia, M/M, Sad llamas, Switching, Thug Life, Toxic Relationships, Unredeemed Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-05 14:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21210158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngstyLlamaCrossings/pseuds/AngstyLlamaCrossings
Summary: It's the year 1967 and the city of Chicago is flooded with the blood of friends and enemies alike.Chaos consumes the streets as open warfare breaks out amongst four of the most influential gangs in the midwest – the Therins, the Leons, the Huffle Hustlers and the Ravenians.Alone amidst the wreckage stands Harry L. Potter, the soon-to-be heir of the biggest narcotics industry. A skilled assasin and a charismatic leader, there’s little that stands in Harry’s way, including his arch nemesis and gay lover – Draco Malfoy.





	Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve watched wayyy too many reruns of The Godfather lol. 
> 
> This is basically one giant angstfest with a dubious ending so if you’re into that, keep on reading! But if not, I totally get it. Kinda creeped myself out writing this story tbh :D Lyrics from the song Never Let Me Go by Lana Del Rey
> 
> Happy reading~ 
> 
> (Helpful terms)  
Five-O – police  
Butterflies – prostitutes  
RICO – Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act  
Consigliere – advisor  
U of C – University of Chicago

_Cause baby we were born to be bad, _  
_Move on, b__uilt to go fast   
_ _Stay strong h__oney,  
_ _You and me, and no one _  
_ Just believe, _

_ Come on _

—

He never meant for any of this to happen.

Water drips down his face, life draining from his chest. _It's so cold._ Above him loomed a dark shadow, silver grey slits casting rain from the heavens. The sun was almost up now, an angry red warning in the distance.

_Stay, please stay. _Draco smiles, a sly sideway smirk, cruel and arrogant as always.

His spoiled little prince.

_ Don’t leave me please. _Cold wet lips press upon his own and he wishes that this moment would never end, wishes that he could gaze into the cloudy grey sky forever.

God, how did things end up this way?

_Just stay._

He closes his eyes and dreams.

* * *

Father’s orders are absolute.

It's the first lesson he learns from Albus Dumbledore, the man who adopted him at the age of 16. ‘_Sometimes you can’t save everyone Harry, even if you really want to.’ _Albus had told him this many times, ‘_Save the innocent, Harry. It’s what this is all about, helping those who deserve it, protecting the people, protecting our own. __There will come a time when you must a decision, as I have, to choose where your loyalties lie. __Always remember - fai sempre ciò che è giusto non ciò che è semplice.’_

Father’s orders are absolute. He’s never failed a mission and he doesn't plan to start now. He bends down on one knee, tipping his lips against the Peverell insignia on a gnarly finger. _‘It must be done.’_ Albus continued, beard quivering with effort _‘To do the right thing, it must be done.”_

_‘Do not return here until it is done cucciolo.’ _He nods once, raising from the leathered armchair. The doors to the study room swing open and he whispers the words _constante vigilanza_ by means of farewell. Albus waves him off, turning to look out the french windows, lost in his own thoughts. 

He strolls down the illustrous hallway, nodding to members of the Order in passing. He stops at the top of the bannister, admiring the home he’s lived in for the past ten years. It’s the last time he’ll ever see it and he drinks in the scenery greedily. The ornate portraits on the wall, the marbled floor he’d slipped on so many times before, the ivory upholsteries gilded in gold… For the home of the oldest gangster in north side Chicago, it was surprisingly tasteful. If you could ignore how the money was made, that is.

The Leons have a monopoly in Chicago for a long time now, trading in intravenous drugs that didn't require a middle man like crack did. The Therin family have always been their biggest rival even before RICO, but recently they’ve had a change in leadership, some bat-shit crazy bastard by the name of Tom Riddle.

See, even gangsters have a code. You don't kill the innocents, that's the rule. Leave the children and the elderly alone, everyone knows this. Everyone except Riddle that is, or as his beloved Death Eaters call him, Lord Voldemort.

Since his rise to power, Chicago has been a constant hellscape. Dude has no tact whatsoever, along with a total lack of nasal features. The four families usually work together for mutual gain, sure there was the occasional fight between the soldiers but the higher-ups would mediate quickly. Otherwise business would suffer and nobody wants that. Voldermort on the other hand, didn't care much for playing by the rules. Rumour is, he’s got six other territories all over the country, Miami, New York, Las Vegas, St. Louis, even fucking Iowa. So what if Chicago burns to the ground? It's all a game to him anyway.

Harry doesn't give much thought to these rumours though. A new wind is blowing in government, one that you can’t just pay off, if the latest crackdowns are any indication. The Feds will be on their asses soon enough and not even Albus is well-connected enough to buy them all out. They’re already headed for disaster, it's just divine intervention if they don't kill each other first.

He stocks up at the warehouse before arranging a meeting with Hermione at the hotel Petrificas. Neville doesn't have inside information that’s of any use this time so he’s forced to rely on an old friend - Hermione Granger, or as her customers called her, the Matriarch of Dearborn Street. He brings Finnigan and Thomas along but leaves them to stand guard at the door.

If he thought Godric’s Hollow was classy, it had nothing on this place. Chandeliers ordained with Swarsvoski crystal dangled from the illustrious ceilings, velvet carpeting on the floor laced with gold trim, so soft that it felt like you were stepping on clouds, breathing in thick curtains of smoke and expensive perfume.  
He feels out of place but does his best to relax, trudging up the familiar stairwell to Hermione’s office.

He’s known Hermione since they were runts. Along with Ron, they’d been best friends well into adulthood. Her parents were honest folk until the recession hit in 1957 and they were forcibly evicted, sent back to the south where they still had family on the farm. Hermione was the only one who stayed, hustling at street corners to get by. She lived with the Weasleys for a period of time and for awhile, everything was good. Too good. Everyone knew it couldn't last, eventually she and Ron had a huge fight and she left for good.

With a combination of book-smart and deadly beauty, her connections with the Order helped culminate into Hotel Petrificas - a gentleman’s club that was as luxurious as it was notorious. They’ve maintained a strictly business relationship since then, Dearborn was on their territory and she pays the Leons a cut every month to protect the area from troublemakers. Just another rat in the race. He wonders if she will do him this one last kindness, if not as a business partner, than as a friend.

“That’s what men always say.” 

She smiles, blowing thick smoke from her dark red lips. “One last favour, one last kiss, one last fuck. They never mean it though.” She shakes her head sadly, eyes twinkling with mirth. “And that includes you, Harry.”

She thinks this is a game, like Harry is some piece of a larger puzzle that she wants to solve. But he doesn't have time for her games, not today. He’s on a mission and he needs that information, even if he has to use family as a last resort, especially those that have left the Order.

“Ronald will be at the reunion next month.” He doesn't miss the way her shoulders tense, perfectly wavy curls quivering under the low light. He presses on, “We could use the butterflies, Capodecina King has promised a large comission if you’re willing. We’ll make it worth your time.” He clasps his hands together and leans back, not once taking his eyes off her.

But she’s not looking at him, smiled screwed on tight ever since Ron’s name came up.

For the life of him, he’ll never understand their love-hate relationship or why they just couldn't get along and yet couldn't stay away from each other. Ron’s his best mate and sworn brother, you’ll never meet a better chap than Ronald Weasley. They’ve all grown under Dumbledore’s tutelage, learnt how to shoot their first gun side by side and been indicted into the Order at the same time. Since then, they’ve taken different paths, Hermione with her hotel and Harry in the drug trade. Only Ron had left Chicago, fleeing to Virginia with his wife Lavender Brown.

It’s not the same without him but he doesn't blame Ron for leaving, not after what happened with Fred. Still, leaving his mistress high and dry must have been hard for anyone to swallow but for someone like Hermione Granger, it was a tight slap in the face. Harry wonders if he’s playing with fire, using Ron as a bargaining chip in their little game, but it’s used or be used in their world and he's not leaving without that information.

She’s still smiling, pearly whites shining brighter than all of the jewellery on her slim neck.

“One last time then.”

He nods, holding his hand out for her to shake. She laughs and leans in to kiss his cheek, breath tickling his skin as she whispers into his ear.

_Checkmate.  
  
_

* * *

  
They cross paths at Diagon, a local club at the border of their territories.

He’s heard of Harry Potter of course, been completely enamoured in his younger years, spurred by the morbid fascination his own father had with the boy.

Father had been on orders to recruit Potter ever since the boy single-handedly thwarted a sting operation that saved all their asses from landing in jail. Four of the twelve federal agents were gunned down before their location was discovered and it was all thanks to the Boy Who Lived.   
Only the Ravens hadn't been so lucky. Their leader, CC Chang, had died that night in the crossfire and it was a huge blow to the Asiatic gang, whose main income came from her steady supply of synthetic drugs from the East. Since then the organization had fallen to ruin, with regular in-fighting breaking out amongst their members, forcing them to integrate with the Highway Huffs for survival.

Seven years have passed since then and Harry was a boy no longer. ‘_Wary of danger from within_,’ Snape had warned him, ‘_War is upon us_.’

But his mentor says so many things, it’s hard to keep track these days. He’s rising through the ranks quickly, soon enough he’ll be standing by his father’s side rather than behind him. The closer he gets to Voldemort however, the further away he drifts from Severus and from himself. Working for the Dark Lord meant throwing caution to the wind, adopting a ‘kill first, question later’ ethos of operation, reacting even before his mind can catch up to scream ‘_no, no no’_.

Crabbe and Goyle had been with him that night, busy beating Mundungus into a bloody pulp. He’d stayed in the shadows, watching but not participating. As if that made all the difference. The filthy rat had stolen wares from their private stash despite knowing the rivalry between their two gangs, he deserved to be punished.

Rumbling laughter echoed from the club and four men tumble into the deserted alleyway, falling over each other. Light pours out into the darkness and Draco spots the messy mops of ginger hair almost immediately. The three of them were incredibly gangly, freckles speckled all over their dirty faces as they strolled into the cold night air. The last one followed a few steps behind, he was smaller and darker than the rest, messy black hair sticking up at odd angles as he pushed a pair of rimmed glasses up his nose.

“Harry P-Potter? Over here! It’s me! Mundungus Fletcher, Dumbledore’s friend!” 

Bright green eyes swivel onto his and Draco forgets how to breathe. 

_Don't, don't, please don’t, _he begs but the Weasleys had stopped too, turning towards them. This doesn't deter Greg though, as another solid punch comes smashing down, causing Mundungus to cough up blood.

“You gotta help me, Harry…” he croaks.

“Too bad for you Fletcher!" the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, years of jealousy snowballing into an avalanche of insults that he could no longer suppress."Guess the Boy Who Lived is better at cold-blooded murder than he is at valiant acts of rescue.” 

He turns to the vivid green eyes and smiles, “What’s the matter Potter, cat got your tongue?” 

There’s barely time to blink before gunfire pierces the air. Harry had barely taken a step forward before Vincent raised his revolver, aiming it at the dark-haired figure.

“NO!” 

Shots ring out before Crabbe hits the floor, lifeless body hitting the asphalt with a sick thud. One of the Weasley’s cry out. Now it was three against two.

He turns in the opposite direction and runs, Greg following close behind. They split up at the fork. He takes the right and orders the other man to meet him back at the manor.

“You can’t kill him,” he yells, not stopping “The Dark Lord will know!”

He hopes Goyle listens to him. If Harry dies tonight, death would be a preferable alternative to what Voldemort has in store for them. The boss doesn't like his toys to be broken unless he breaks them himself. Draco shudders at the thought, picking up the pace as he climbs over a chain-link fence. Footsteps echo from behind him but he doesn't dare look back. If he could just reach the main street where he’d park his car, no one would have to know he was even here, he won’t have to be punished, his Dad wont have to—

Someone tackles him from behind.

It’s dark and he panics, swinging blindly. His fist connects with air and he loses balance, tripping over a trashcan and landing heavily onto the concrete. He spits out a broken tooth, blood pouring from his mouth as he turned to face his attacker.

A flash of green eyes, a lightning bolt scar.

Strong hands pin him to the ground, followed by sharp knees in his ribs, forcing the air out from his lungs. There’s an unmistakable click of a barrel and then something cold pressed into the back of his head. 

“Don’t act as if you know me, Malfoy.” A voice warns from behind him, husky and thick with accent.

He rolls his eyes. “I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing. Even cockroaches are more interesting than you _Potter_.”

It's a show of bravado that he does not possess, pride is a waning thing that peaks when the moon is the brightest and the sun is out of sight. He’s rewarded with a punch in the face, right on top of his already broken jaw. He groans and attempts to roll away.

“Better a cockroach than someone like you, too busy bending over for Daddy dearest to realise the shit you’re in, aren’t you?” The body that leans into him is slight but taut, they’re so close now he could smell the man’s cologne mixing with his own, a concoction of Firewhiskey thrumming in his veins.

“At least I have a father.” He expects another punch and recoils on instinct but something soft pushes against his lips, sealing them together. The shock is apparent on both their faces and he takes the momentary distraction to slip in a wandering tongue. 

The gun falls to the ground with a clatter.

Quick as a snake, he shucks it away with a dart of his foot. Gathering all his strength, he slams a closed fist into the side of Potter’s head. The force leaves him with a cracked knuckle and he cradles it to his wrist as he dashes away. He nearly runs into oncoming traffic in his haste, spotting the silver Mercedes down the road and sighing in relief before stumbling in, jamming the key in the ignition before speeding off without so much as a look back.

He kept an eye on the rearview mirror just in case, simultaneously nursing the side of his broken face with a bloody grimace. The shock had worn off by now and the pain was settling in like morning mist to fog his senses but at least he was alive. Father would never live it down if his only heir died at some random street corner in their own territory.

The spot on his cheek stings and he whimpers, meandering away from the pain to concentrate on something else. But all that circled in his mind were emeralds that fell like rain, a rumbling dark cloud in the distance, flashes of electric energy charging the air, seeping into his whole body. A brewing storm that refuses to leave.

“Fuck” he swears, pain shooting up his neck.

_Fuck.  
  
_

* * *

  
He’d joined the Leons at thirteen, the youngest member to ever be recruited.

Children were often kept away from gang life and you couldn't join the Leons until you had at least a high-school diploma, that was the rule. But Albus made an exception just for Harry, he always did.

That night Big D had beaten him up so badly that he'd landed in the hospital, choked up on medication and bills his uncle refused to pay, Dumbledore had been there to witness everything. The man had been on his way to visit his comatose sister and he’d offered to pay for Harry’s hospitalisation fees without fuss. Eventually Harry was brought to Godric’s Hollow and the Order nursed him back to health, asking for nothing but his courage and loyalty in return.

He's never looked back since.

At the time, Leons was still a small neighbourhood gang, nothing like the conglomerate it is today. Albus was second-in-command to Grindelwald The Great, an ex-con from Nurmengard, a Detroit based gang that ran the south-side. There were rumours about their relationship flying around but Harry never paid them any attention, all he knew was that they eventually fell out and engaged in an epic shootout where Albus had emerged as the victor.

At 16, after three years of living with Father, he was assigned to join the Hog Warts, a small youth gang with affiliations to the Leons and still exists to this day. It was there that he’d met Ron and Hermione, as well as the rest of the Weasley family. In the beginning, he had struggled to find a place for himself in the social hierarchy of the gang. He wasn't charismatic enough to be an informant, nor smart enough to be a book keeper, he didn't enjoy fighting either, not with his fists anyway, the only thing he liked were guns. They soon discovered that he could lock and load in under thirty seconds, he could shoot moving targets from fifty feet away and he could do all this while on the move. ‘_A rare gift’_, Consigliere McGonagall had said, the only time he remembers seeing her smile. 

He’d been reluctant at first but even Harry could see that it was good exposure. Networking was the backbone of any successful business venture and it helped to differentiate the people who were nice and those who were nice only to his face. He’d hired Dean and Seamus as soldiers as soon as he was made junior member, followed by the Weasley twins as his weapon suppliers, Ron as his second, Hermione as his operations manager, Neville as his informer and Ginny as his enforcer.

They had a good run but by the time they were in their twenties, tensions between the Leons and the Therins had reached an all time high. Innocent people were dying on the streets and the code of honour they’d worked so hard to preserve was irrevocably broken. Everyone was looking out for themselves and law enforcement had to be brought in as mediators, smoothing the ruffled feathers on both sides. As a result, their little army was forced to split up.

The mediation meetings continued however, always to be held at 12 Grimmauld Place, a quote unquote 'safe zone' for both gangs who had members from the same blood family. His godfather, Sirius Black, had not been pleased with the arrangement, for obvious reasons. Harry had begged him not to go and if he did, to bring Harry along with him. He yielded at the second request but not the first.

The Order and the Death Eaters sat on opposite sides in the large living room with Five-O right in the middle. Pastor Fudge was sweating bullets, dabbing his forehead every few seconds as he spoke. Harry barely heard a word, too busy surveying the room for hidden weapons as their guns had been confiscated at the door. The emptines in his backpocket was unsettling and he shifts his weight to balance it out.   
He stood behind his godfather, watching Lucius and Narcissa at the opposite side with feigned disinterest. Sitting next to them was Draco Malfoy, smirking up at him with the careful tilt of his sharp chin.

He looks away.

The meeting eventually fell into a stalemate, with both sides unwilling to compromise. Fudge promptly called for a ten minute recess and was met with a round of approval, the only thing they had agreed on for the past three hours. Sirius was barely out of his chair when a gunshot rang out, followed by a cackling of high-pitched laughter. It was chaos after that.

He barely managed to escape with Ron, bullets whizzing above their heads. One of them hits Ron’s shoulder on the way out.

Harry curses. He knew this would happen, he knew it and he was right. He’d warned Albus and Mr. Weasley but they wouldn't listen and look what happened, if only they had listened! He lifts Ron by the one good arm and charges out the house and down the street until they reached the car. He speeds away but has no idea where to go, driving aimlessly down the boulevard.

A hospital was out of the question and the safe house was too far, he wont be able to get there in time. Ron could die if he didn't act quickly. There was only one place he could think of. Staying clear of the main road, he heads for The Petrificas.

Romilda Vane greets him at the backdoor and he’s never been more relieved to see his on-again off-again girlfriend. She ushers them into a spare room where Madam Pomfrey was already waiting with a pair of surgical scissors in her deft hands. He means to stay but is told, rather rudely, that he must leave them alone so she could work in peace. He opens his mouth to argue but one look at Pomfrey sends him packing. With no place to go, he waits outside the door awkwardly, tapping his foot along with the minutes that trickled away.

“It won’t be very long.” 

He turns around in surprise. The airy voice belonged to a petite blond girl who could not be older than fourteen or fifteen. She was wearing a blue see-through kimono that was as long as her hair, a rather queer assortment of jewellery and hardly any makeup. She takes him by the arm, as if they weren’t complete strangers, and leads him up the stairs, waving to a group of men in passing.

“Are you Harry Potter?” She whispers, leaning in conspiratorially.

Harry considers this for a moment. She didn't seem to be a threat but there's something quick and cold about the look in her eye, something ethereal and above-it-all in her vacant smile. If he lies, they'll both know it.

“That’s me.” He confirms, opting for the truth “And who might you be?”

“I knew it.” She giggles, “I’m Luna, Looney Luna. They call me Lovegood here, and I suppose you can too.” She giggles again, as if they were sharing an inside joke.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Ms Loo-Er, Luna.” He replies, wondering where the hell she was leading him. The silence drags on for too long and he clears his throat before asking, “So what brings you to The Petrificas?”

“I work here.” She states. Catching the surprised look on his face, she adds “They put Daddy in an institution so I work here to pay it off oh, don't look like that Harry!" She bats long lashes and a flip of her hair, "It’s not so bad. Free room and board, you know.” 

Harry doesn't ask anymore questions and neither does she. She leaves him in front of Room 934 before skipping away merrily, disappearing down the corridor as suddenly as she had appeared. The entire encounter was thoroughly baffling so he shakes his head to clear it before opening the door, taking a step back in instinctual repulsion. 

To say the room was gaudy would be a _huge_ understatement. It was covered top to toe in lace and an explosion of pink, pink, _pink_. He’s never seen so much pink in his life, from the ceiling to the carpeting and even the furniture, various shades of pink had been woven into the very fabric of space, not to mention the purposefully scattered rose petals and asymmetrical heart-shaped bed. With ribbons. _Bloody hell_.

A man emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel hanging precariously from his waist. “Astoria, what took you—"

Their eyes meet.

On instinct he grabs for his back pocket, only to find it was empty. _Fuck._ He must have left the Firebolt back at Grimmauld. Harry keeps his expression schooled, looking everywhere but those misty grey eyes and marbled skin. 

Draco shoots him an unimpressed look.

“If you wanted to kill me, you should have done it sooner." Comes the sultry voice, so full of pomp that it sets his teeth on edge, clawing the corners of his lips in their bid to be set free. "Too chicken shit, I expect.” 

Malfoy turns and heads for the dresser, the towel slips to the floor.

Harry doesn’t look away. He tells himself that he doesn't feel embarrassed because they’re both men. He tells himself that the water dripping down Draco’s back and down his ass cheeks doesn't faze him at all. He tells himself he doesn't have the urge to place his hands all over that pale flesh, to make an imprint that will last forever.

“Bet we killed more of yours than you did of ours.” Draco looks over his shoulder to smile slyly at him. “Too bad about Sirius though, huh? Survived twelve years in prison only to be gunned down in his own home."

"By his own cousin no less!”

The snickering sounds of a serpent forces his body to move before his brain can catch up. Striking from behind, he grabs the man into a headlock and hacking noises resound in the quiet room. As predicted, Malfoy may be his equal in marksmanship but the pretty boy was shite at hand-to-hand combat. What for when you had goons like Crabbe and Goyle to do your dirty work for you? _Dirty spoiled prince._

They tumble onto the bed. Malfoy aims an elbow to his gut, stabbing his abdomen. The pain makes him grimace but he holds on tight. He gets kneed in the groin and is finally forced to let go but not before raising his fist to smash it across solid bone.

Draco stares up at him in shock, a purplish bruise blossoming against his reddened cheeks.

_Beautiful_ he couldn't help but think, a slight thrill at being the one who put it there. For some inexplicable reason, he wants to ruin that pretty face even more. Diving down, he bites onto thin lips. Memories of that night in the alley resurfaces, heat pooling at the base of his spine. 

He expects Draco to throw him off, punch him, kick, scream, anything. What he doesn't expect is for the man to bite back twice as hard, causing blood to trickle from his lips, tasting copper between them as a sly tongue slips in to lick at his teeth. Nor does he expect blunt nails to dig into his back, or the slight bulge from where thin boxers were rubbing up against his own.

Milky thighs reach up to wrap thin legs around his waist, securing him in place. All the courage he's displayed earlier seems to melt into a pool of nothingness, _I shouldn't be doing this, I really shouldn’t. This is wrong, this is—_

Draco rolls their hips together.

He arches into the touch, scrambling to take off his belt and pants. It must take too long however, as an impatient huff echoes from above him. That’s the only warning he gets before the legs around his waist tighten, dragging him down to eye level. He hisses at the contact, buckling down on instinct, pressure building between his legs.

“Hurry the fuck up Potter. Unlike you, I haven't got all day.” Draco commands, the same sense of frustration apparent on his sharp features.

_This is wrong. Albus will never forgive me, sleeping with the enemy! What the hell am I thinking? I can’t— _Long fingers ghost at the hemline of his boxers and yanks down. 

He gasps and the voice goes quiet.

Misty grey eyes lean forward, a confident smirk spreading across his face. The sudden exposure makes him vulnerable and he shifts away but Draco has a firm hand on his ass, aligning their bodies together so he can’t escape. A cold hand reaches down to touch the outline of his dick. Harry tips his head back and cries out. 

The grin on his face grows impossibly wider as Draco thumbs the tip, pre-cum creating a smooth layer between his deft fingers, he maintains a slow pace, rubbing up and down in a torturously sweet movement.

_Bastard must be doing it on purpose_ he thinks, sweat dribbling down the side of his face. His hips move of their own accord, split between savouring the deliberate friction and pounding in reckless abandon. Wanting to reciprocate, he shoves a hand down Draco’s boxers and grabs roughly, causing the other man to wince and pull back. He loosens immediately and leans in for a wet kiss as an apology. They twist and turn into each other, the bed creaking beneath their weight.

Another hand snakes down around his waist to cup around his perineum, tugging gently as he’s being stroked to fruition. He bites down on a bare shoulder to resist another scream and does the same in turn, watching with sick satisfaction as Draco tilts his head sideway, eyes rolling back as he pleaded for his own release.

Kind, encouraging words murmur in his ears, ones he’s never heard before. Least of all from his arch rival. He can't look into those grey eyes, for fear he’ll get lost in their mist forever. He focuses on the bruise that spreads across Draco’s cheeck, the delicate purple petals that had smudged into a green blue patch of veins, weaving together like thin cobwebs against the sharp chin. The intricacy of it, the fragility… it took his breath away.

Draco is first to come and he leans forward to bite down on a hollow neck, sucking at the sensitive juncture just below his ear. Harry allows himself to be marked as the waves of his own orgasm surged through his whole body, kneading at the pleasure points below his fingertips .

They lay panting on the bed, drunk in the afterglow.

Before long, his mind begins to reel with guilt and shame, asking questions he doesn't want answers to - _What the fuck just happened? Did he just have sex with Draco Malfoy? Did this even count as sex? Wait, two guys can have sex? _

_What. The. Fuck. _

“Shut up.”

He turns to face the man beside him in indignation.“I didn't say anything!”

“Yes, but you were thinking loud.” Draco rolls over to face him, sly smile still firmly in place as he pulled the covers over their naked bodies.

“Easy for you to say Malfoy, seeing as you never think at all.” He snapped back.

A catty yawn is his only reply followed by a lazy wave of a hand, “Says the hypocrite. The name's Draco, if your limited head space can remember it.”

“I’ll call you what I want to call you.” A sigh escapes from luscious lips but the man doesn't argue, snuggling down into the oddly shaped bed. Harry doesn't know what to expect going forward and that simultaneously frightens and excites him. He’ll have to be patient, take it slow, see where this goes and not get attached. He can do this, he knows he can.

As if in reponse, Draco inches closer, nestling his face in the crook of his neck. 

“Don't think this means anything Potter,” He warns despite the amusement in his voice. “The right side of my face hurts like a bitch thanks to a _certain someone_, so this is a one time deal.” Sharp grey eyes glare at him, daring him to argue. 

He doesn't. Instead his hand moves traitorously up to stroke the good side of Draco’s cheek, watching as it contorts in mild surprise, mirroring his own.

“I’ll ice it in the morning.” He whispers into the darkness.

“You better.”

He rolls his eyes. “Just shut up and sleep Draco.”

Eventually their breathing evens out and Harry forces the thoughts from his mind.

It feels right somehow, in a way that he can't explain. He should be more worried, the Death Eater could wake up at any point in the night and he may not live to see the next sunrise. Which is why he falls asleep with a faint smile on his face, embraced by silver hair and marble skin.

In the morning, he wakes with a groan, only slightly surprised to find the figure of a grown man on top of him, humping enthusiastically against his morning wood.

He completely forgets about the ice pack.  
  


—

  
They meet in secret.

In alleyways and deserted buildings, on dilapidated stairwells and urine soaked linoleum floors, always after sundown and never in their own territory. This sometimes meant spending long hours driving out to the suburbs, just shooting the shit before parking at a secluded spot to fuck each other’s brains out.

By Harry's standards, it's awfully romantic.

There are a few unwritten rules though, stuff they never mention. Like the Order and the Death Eaters, nothing about work or who they’ve killed that week. Two, always use condoms, no arguments and no take-backs. Three, they’re free to see other people and neither is allowed to complain about it. It's a sad testament to his self-esteem when he breaks it off with both Romilda and Ginny almost immediately after he starts seeing Draco. He knows Astoria is still in the picture but he honestly doesn't give a damn. Their families were hellbent on killing each other, what was one more Bonny on the side? 

He thinks Albus might know, or at least suspects something, with the all-seeing way that he knows about everything. If he does however, he hasn't said anything about it and Harry doesn't know if he wants it to stay that way or if that’ll come back to bite him in the ass someday. He’ll take what he can get.

The others have noticed a change too, though they grapple for a reason. Molly had pulled him aside at dinner, wheedling him for information in that motherly way of hers. Mr Weasley had too, if only on the insistence of his wife. Even Lupin had given him a heavy side-eye but otherwise remained silent, so had Tonks. Their son, Teddy, only looked at him imploringly, as if they were sharing a secret that no one else knew about. He hero-worships his godfather at the best of times and honestly thinks Harry is some kind of skyfall casanova, bringing girls home left and right and forcing them into abortions when things got too complicated. The boy was usually wrong of course, though the teenager had hit the nail on the head this time, or somewhere close to it at least.

He evades them all, blaming it on Sirius' untimely death and finishes his meal quickly to retire back to his apartment. Where Draco would often be waiting for him, legs spread on the four poster bed.

Only Hermione knew, having caught them at the Petrificas. He’d expected her to be judgemental, to chastise and belittle but she merely smiled, intelligent eyes gleaming with mirth.

_‘Took you two long enough.’ _

Harry had nothing to say to that. Nothing at all.  
  


* * *

  
It’s ironic, Draco thinks, that the only place two enemy gang members could safely hang out, was the church.

It’s quiet, secluded and empty. Also, they’ve paid off the verger, probably enough to see his next family vacation to Hawaii. This was their rendezvous point every week. Even if they were spotted, church was still the common factor that everyone shared so they wouldn't be blamed.

Harry had bought an abandoned lot in the area, a rundown shanty with stripped concrete walls and barely any furniture. It suited him just fine, all they needed was a sturdy bed anyway. He figures he should feel a little guilty, using the holy congregation to commit a homosexual act of sin but Harry doesn't believe in God, or any other gods so it makes precious little difference to him.

“Even if I did, which I don't, it won't mean we’ll get along." Harry whispers. "Look at the Irish, poor sods fighting over potatoes across the pond, fat lot the cross ever did for em.”

“We're not Irish, Potter.” He drawls, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“I know that.” Harry replies irritably. “I meant in theory. They be building empires left and right but nothing ever changes does it? We’re stuck in this shitehole and that ain’t never gonna change, ain’t it?”

“You never know.” He begins, unsure of where this conversation was headed. “Fifty, sixty years down the road, things could be different.”

“You mean things could be worse.” Harry leans back, kicking his feet in the air. “If RICO comes down on our assess, we’ll have no place to go. 'Cept jail.”

“We could start afresh, we could—"

“Could what? Work a nine to five?” Harry asked incredulously. “After a life of selling drugs and offing people? I don't think so.”

He shrugs, tired of the argument but not willing to give in, “Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Say that to the cops.” Harry snorted before continuing “You surprise me Draco, I never pegged you, of all people, for a romantic.”

“Well..." He whispers with a sly grin. "I’m with you, aren’t I?”

They laugh and it echoes all the way up to the steeples. Harry snakes an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in close and he does his best to ignore the tiny shivers that prick up and down his neck, blaming it on the wintry chill seeping in through the double doors.

“So you don't believe in redemption? Not at all?” He asks, leaning into the embrace. Harry opens his mouth to argue but he cuts the other man off.

“Not even me?”

Silence befalls them. 

He searches bright green eyes for an answer, one he needs to hear though it’s not the one he knows is coming.

“No, not even you.”

On one hand, Harry had a point but on the other hand… He looks away, admiring the cut glass of the stained windows. The beauty of Mother Mary and Baby Jesus embracing each other makes his heart ache and he's suddenly very tired. _That can't be true_, he wants to argue. Look at his mother, willing to stay with a man who offered his own son as a sacrificial lamb to a mad man. If that isn’t love, then he doesn’t know what love is.

“And you’re okay with that?” He whispered, for fear that an angel was listening in on their conversation. “You’re okay with fucking a man who’s beyond redemption?”

Harry laughs, unafraid, unabashed and wholly unrepentant. “I’ll be a hypocrite if I said I wasn't, wouldn't I?”

But he can’t accept the answer. It can’t be that easy, it never is. “You don't mean that, you don't—"

“Draco, I like you okay?” 

The confession surprises him more than it should.

“I mean, I don't know why I do but I do.” Harry shrugs, suave as always, “I don't care how horrible you are, I already know."

"I like you anyway, you pompous git.”

He barks out a laugh. “And I like you too, you filthy little shit.”

Harry elbows him in the ribs, causing him to laugh louder. The custodian on duty shushes them, looking somewhat scandalised. Rising unsteadily from the pews, they slip out the double doors, bursting out in uncontrollable giggles. Meandering down the street like a bunch of drunken sailors, they belched out in song:

_“Take me out to the ball game! Take me out with the crowd! Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack… I don't care if I never get back!”_

They stumble along the empty pavements until they reach Harry’s apartment, lips locked til they were numb from the cold and the passion on their tongue. Harry could barely fit the key into the lock, he was laughing and shaking so hard. Draco helps him along by roving his hands all over the fit body, resting his fingers upon a toned ass and pinching down hard. Harry shoves him off, still laughing and somehow they tumble into the living room, crashing headfirst onto the couch.

_“Let me root, root, root for the home team!”_

He undoes the buttons of his shirt but Harry stops him halfway, pulling him in for another deep kiss. Fingers tap at the ridge of his spine, humming quietly. He looks up at forest green eyes, embracing their quiet strength, digging in blunt nails to tussle at a dark mane. This creature, this savage beast that belonged to no one, worshipped by everyone. This was Harry Potter, wild, young and effortlessly free. So much unlike himself that he wonders, how long will I have him?

_“If they don’t win it’s a shame …For it’s One! _

How long will these moments last? How long before their divided loyalties destroys them both? How long before they're forced to break apart?

_"Two!!”_

Yet he can't bring himself to walk away from this, whatever this is between them.

_"Three strikes!!!_

Growing beyond his control, weeds manifesting upon a sacred garden. Even if his lover is a man destined for greater, he’s too selfish to let this go. Family is a fixture of their lives, cherished and nourished by the ties that bind, even if strangled and tangled beyond measure, they won't let go.

_“You’re out!”_

He won’t let go.

_“At the old ball game.”  
  
_

* * *

  
“How could you.”

Harry nestles the firewhiskey in his hand, clinking the diamond ice against a panel of frosted glass, anything to drown out Draco's screams.

“My mother was in there Harry! What if you shot her and the Dark Lord wasn’t there, what if you shot her? Did you think of—" They’ve had this argument before, many times now. “No of course not, you never do, you never _think!_ You just do whatever the old man tells you to do. If he tells you to jump you’ll ruddy well do it, won't you? You’re worse than a dog, I can't be—“

“Draco—“

“—What about me? What if it’d been me in there...” Voice trembling, Draco finally meets his eyes. “Would you have shot me too, Harry?”

There’s a silence, veil unravelling for the truth. He has to be careful, extricating information is one of his strengths but sharing it is not.

“I never miss a shot.” _Good, start with the truth. _“If I wanted to kill Narcissa, she would be dead already. You should know that, you said so yourself.” He’s brought back to their first night of passion, one that would ignite the many others that followed, but Draco is colder than the ice in his glass and he awaits judgement from the jury, calculating his every movement.

“You’re not sorry at all, are you?” 

It’s a loaded question, one he’s never been asked before. Father’s orders are absolute. (_Regret, Harry, is for the weak. To protect the innocents, we must cast away all emotion.) _He looks at Draco, _really_ looks at him. A tall shadow cast over the fireplace, silver hair sleeked back to perfection, a defiant tilt in his sharp chin.

His lover is a fucking hypocrite.

“Are you?”

He remembers the night of Fred’s death, remembers how Molly had screamed herself hoarse in despair, begging on the ground for revenge. He remembers Mr Weasley standing at the mausoleum, face downcast. They had wanted names but it was too dark and George only saw the faces of Crabbe and Goyle. Mundungus had fled in the confusion and Ron had left the country by then so he couldn’t answer. Harry was the only one left.

_'Did you see who it was?'_ Albus had asked, peering from beyond his half-moon glasses.

No. He answered quickly, too quickly.

_“I see. You may go_.” As he stands to leave, a gnarly hand thrusts in his face, the gleaming black stone manacled on one bony index finger. _“Do not forget Harry, we protect the innocents and we protect our own. La famiglia.“_

It’s hard these days, to tell who’s innocent and who’s not. How could he decide, how could Albus expect him to draw a line? Be it innocent or guilty? Friend or foe? Lover or enemy?

_Fai sempre ciò che è giusto, non ciò che è semplice_. The words are stuck in his throat. He bends down and leans in to place a kiss on his father’s cheek, the first and perhaps the last he’ll ever see of his benefactor. _Constante Vigilanza._

He blinks away the memory, stares at the young man standing before him now. The flames flicker around the whites in his eyes, bloodshot and slightly charcoal against the pale skin. La famiglia.

_Don’t go, don’t leave me please_ are words he wants to say but cannot bring himself to do so.The cold seeps in from one body to another and though the fire blazes, it does not reach them. Draco turns away, leather shoes slow and quiet against the soft carpet. 

The door to their apartment swings shut and with a slight creak, he was gone.  
  


* * *

  
They’re at the bowling alley when it happens.

He hasn’t seen Draco in over two months. They’ve lost contact since the Death Eaters had moved to the Malfoy Manor, apparently Voldemort had insisted it be their new safehouse, for whatever blasphemous reason Harry doesn't care to find out. He had enough problems of his own.

He’s about to switch out his loafers for a pair of ill-fitting bowling shoes when men in silver masks file in, lining up one by one against the aisle to block the exit. Voldermort emerges from the hurling mass, holding a machine gun to the air.

Bullets saw through the roof, a pattern of black and white polka accompanied by an orchestra of screams.

He drops to the floor, crawling behind the bright blue and yellow shelves as blood pooled in waves. From the corner of his eye, he sees Lupin fall into the gutter with a thud, fingers still locked around a shiny red bowling bowl. On the seats behind him was Tonks, neon pink hair obscuring the small smile on her face.

He swallows. 

This was a set-up, they knew he’d be here. Inching behind a shoe rack, he surveys the scene.

The gunfire had stopped, a momentary respite, no doubt resuming as soon as he emerged from his hiding place. There’s three means of escape, through the ventilation in the ceiling, through the service aisle beyond the gutter or through the staff entrance behind the counter. Option one and two would expose his location but option three could lead to a dead end.

He takes a deep breath and dashes across the counter, sliding his legs above the table as bullets once again rained the sky.

“Bring him to me!” A baritone voice thunders as shadows race towards him but he’s got a head start, locking the door behind him as he meandered deeper into the back building.

The path ahead splits into a three-way fork, he stands at the centre, unsure of where to go. Footsteps echo from behind him. 

If he stays here any longer, they’ll find him and kill him but if he picks a wrong turn, he'll end up back at the entrance and they’ll kill him anyway. He's about to dart to the left when a voice echoes down the empty passageway.

“Harry? Harry Potter?” A short figure emerges from behind the exposed brick wall, bald and with large green eyes that looked too big to fit on the small face. 

“Dobby? Dobby, is that you?”

The Hog Warts member nodded with a shit-eating grin. “Dobby has come to save Harry Potter!” Bony fingers tug at his wrist, navigating through the corridors with practiced ease. They emerge into a hole in the wall, a foul smell emitted from within, reminiscent of the sewers.

“This way!” Dobby urged, “Kreacher is waiting for us on the outside, Mr Potter!” Harry vaguely recalls a crooked back and sullen black eyes, stout face screwed up so tight he looked more like a withered old man than he did a teenager. 

The footsteps were closing in now.

“Through here!” They turn a corner, passing a door.

A burst of sunlight assaults his eyes and he’s momentarily blinded. Right in front of them was Kreacher, revving a scooter with the most morose expression he's ever seen on someone's face. It was obvious this had not been his idea. He glances around for Death Eaters but they had exited from behind the building, bypassing the winding alleyway and right in front of the main road.

Shots rings out.

“DOBBY!” 

The lithe body falls to the ground but not before pushing him out the door and locking it behind him. He bangs on the wooden surface and wrestles with the knob.

More shots ring out, Kreacher hollers his name from the curb. He climbs onto the backseat of the scooter just as Voldemort bursts through the back entrance, the roar of the machine gun rumbles behind them like a thousand fireworks, maniacal laughter reverberating in the distance.

They zoom off to bullets flying in every direction, disappearing down the highway as a tiny speck on the dripping blood orange sunset.  
  


* * *

  
He hears a knock on the door at three in the morning.

Grabbing the Firebolt from under his pillow, he tiptoes past the living room, hunching over on the wall beside the main foyer.

“Who’s there?” He calls out with baited breath.

“It’s me.” 

He unlocks the door immediately. The figure barely has time to cross the threshold before a fist soars through the air.

“Half my family is dead because of you!” Another fist comes plummeting down but it’s blocked and a swift kick sends him flying backwards, causing him to clutch at his stomach in agony.

“So is mine, you asshole! So is mine, so is my father!” 

They stare at each other, the dim lighting shielding half of Draco’s face from view yet the tears running down his face was unmistakable. 

Shameful, for a man of his standing to cry like a child, something Harry wishes he could still do. He tightens his fist for another punch but the anger had dissipated, nothing but the cold night air nipping through the curtains. He reaches out both hands and takes a step forward gingerly. 

Draco flinches back, wincing as he relaxes into the embrace. Harry holds him like a tiny bird, tight enough not to fly away but not so much as to choke him. It’s a delicate balance, Harry misses the juxtaposition more than he ever realised.

“They’re planing a raid.” Draco says, after the silence had dragged on for too long. “The ravens are weak and Diggory Jr. is dead, they won’t know what hit em. Yaxley has confirmed this."

"Here’s the details.” A ball of scrunched up paper is shoved into his hand.

_It could be a trap_ Harry thinks, _he could be leading me to my grave and like a moth to a flame I’ll be stupid enough to follow_.

He frowns, “Albus hasn’t said anything to me.”

“It’s not the first time he’s kept secrets from you, has it?”

He doesn’t argue but he doesn’t defend Father either. There’s always been an unbreakable breach between them, perhaps it was the lack of blood relations, perhaps it was because Albus never told him anything about his real parents. Not that he cares really, he has the rest of the Leons and they’re the only family he’ll ever need.

“I’ll have to be there this time.” Draco drops his voice till it’s barely a whisper. “He’s mad that you escaped back at the bowling alley. Da— Lucius was suppose to secure all the exits.” The soft sobbing turns into a full-on wail and Harry drags the shuddering body back into his room. They lie on the bed and he cards a hand through soft silver hair.

“I have nothing left.”

He’s wrong of course, as he often is. The one who has nothing left is Harry. He can tell Draco won’t be returning after tonight and he doesn’t know how to stop his lover from leaving.

“You have your Mom, you could take her and cross the border. Don't you have family up north?”

“I— I can’t. He’ll... He'll kill us both.”

_Coward,_ he thinks,_ you’re a coward Draco. A coward, a liar and a cheat._

“If you stay, he’ll kill you anyway.”

Draco shakes his head, trembling so hard his lips were tinged blue.

“You don’t get it!”

Harry doesn’t miss the flicker of hatred in those piercing grey eyes.

“We don’t have a choice—

“In life there are always choices—“

“—He killed Dad and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save him. He doesn't care! He's not like— You wouldn''t understand. ” Draco shook his head sadly.

It makes him want to laugh.

Of course he doesn’t understand. Ron had left, so had Hermione, Sirius and Lupin were dead and so was Fred. His adoptive father may be joining them soon, if the cancer eating away at his right hand was any indication. Where would that leave Harry? A twenty-five year old to lead the biggest mafia in Chicago?

Fuck that. So no, he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t care to understand either, the only thing he wants is standing right in front of him and if he can’t have him then there’s no point in any of this. What the hell _wouldn't_ he understand? He’s a man with nothing left to lose.

Gripping the hands around his throat, he lays a kiss on runny lips, gently tugging their bodies onto the bed. He pulls out a drawer from the nightstand, rummaging its depths till he finds a small green velvet case. He hands it to Draco who opens it gingerly.

“Wha—What is it?” Malfoy asks, tears still falling from his face. Harry grins, sliding his fingers across the smooth needle, glinting like a diamond in the darkness. The glass barrel attached to the stem was filled with a clear molten gold, tiny air bubbles trapped just beneath the surface, waiting to get out. 

“Liquid luck.” 

He lifts the syringe and Draco holds out his arm automatically, the tattoo of a skull and serpents jumping to life. “When you’re down, the only way left to go is up, up." He flicks the surface of pale skin, tracing the blue green veins with practiced ease. "Hold still now, I don't want to hurt you.” The silver tip slides in easily and Draco lets out a low moan as he falls back onto the bed, all the tension leaving his body.

“More… more…”

“Soon, I promise.” He feathers light kisses down a swan neck.

The dosage he’d administered will be enough to keep Draco awake but not enough for him to fight back. It’s their last night, he’ll take what he can get. Draco pulls him in for a kiss, slow and clumsy but willing enough. They’ll take it slow, do it the way he likes, the way lovers do. They’ve got all night and hopefully, tomorrow will never come.

“Harry?”

“Mhmm?”

“Stop thinking and fuck me, please.”

He barks out a laugh, undressing them both quickly. Spitting into his hand, he slips two fingers into Draco’s awaiting lips. A tongue sucks on the pads of his fingers and he presses down deeper, scraping the roof of his mouth. Draco doesn’t resist despite his usually delicate gag reflex. Because of the drug or because of the pleasure, Harry doesn’t know. His other hand reaches down, ghosting against the outline of the bulge in Draco’s boxers. He doesn’t know what to think, that the human body could still react in a situation such as this, what a marvel indeed.

With a slow steady motion, he pumps the entire length through the cotton fabric, watching with glassy eyes as Draco writhed beneath him, saliva dribbling down his chin. He takes the wet fingers and slips them between pale cheeks, forcing through the thick ring of muscle. He expects some resistance, as he usually does but his lover is completely relaxed, making desperate mews from beneath him. He slips in another two fingers easily, other hand still keeping a steady rhythm.

“Do it just— Fucking get on with it.” He smirks, wiping the sweat from his brow, glasses nearly slipping from the bridge of his nose. 

_My spoiled little prince. _His fingers leave the tight hole only to be replaced by his own dripping rod. He moves in, rocking them back and forth till the bed was creaking in protest. Silver hair tipped backwards, exposing a long neck mattered with bruises and hickeys, each indistinguishable from the other.

He grabs ahold of jutting hips and yanks them downwards as he angles up for better access, all the while plunging deeper to fill up the warmth squeezing around him. He feels an intrusion at the base of his spine and briefly registers Draco’s fingers entering his own hole. He keeps moving, undeterred as misty eyes leaned forward to rub at his chest, taunting his nipples into hardness. Harry jerks harder, making harsh slapping noises as flesh hit flesh with fevered intensity. Draco lets out a sharp shout and sinks back into the pillows, a trail of thick white fluid shooting across his stomach.

With great discipline, he pulls out, suddenly cold without the tightness to surround him.

He bends over to smooth a hand against a pale face, checking for signs of withdrawal or anaphylactic shock but Draco merely pulls him in for a rough kiss, already recovering from his own orgasm. Harry is close, the need and want sizzling beneath his skin as Draco watches him with renewed interest, his own bony fingers skating down to rub his limp cock back into hardness.

“Ride me, c’mon.” His voice is taunting, a lovely sly smile stretched on the side of his face. “Don’t pretend like you haven’t done it before, _Potter_.” There's a sing song quality to his voice that Harry hates to love, the way his tongue wraps around his last name like a Christmas present.

“Quiet you git, or I won’t do it at all.” He grunts but does as instructed, thighs still pulsing with exertion but with the urge of his own orgasm so close to the surface, he spurs on. He lifts himself up and Draco guides his hips down to connect them.

Electricity shoots up his rear, travelling all the way up to his shoulders blades, making him shiver as he bites back a groan. He twists downwards like a corkscrew, savouring the feedback of pleasure that jolts through his entire body. Leaning backwards to gain some leverage, he grinds his hips, swinging like a pendulum as strong hands guided him to completion. He’s almost there, so close to the end if he could just— Draco reaches out a hand to wrap around his dick, pressing a thumb to the tip like a stopper.

A scream rips from his lungs as he struggles to escape.

“Leggo, you idiot!” But the man ignores him, smirking in arrogance as he thrusts his hips up.

The sudden force of it shirks him forward, gasping into a collarbone as he’s being slammed into repeatedly. He needs to come, he needs it so badly, tears are welling in his eyes. But every time he raises his legs, Draco only thrusts higher, the slick gravity doing the work for him as Harry slides back down, hitting the same sweet spot over and over until he’s begging with tears in his eyes. Another agonising minute passes before Draco lets go, spilling his own seed between their sweaty bodies. They collapse back onto the bed in a useless heap, Harry has a vague memory of being wiped clean before blacking out completely.

By morning, Draco was gone.

There was no evidence of him ever being in Harry’s apartment, all traces of their lovemaking erased except for a scrunched up paper ball that lay unassumingly beside the now empty syringe of _Felix Felicis_.

He falls back on the pillow, ignoring the world and the ache in his chest for just a little longer.   
  


* * *

  
It’s the day of the raid.  
  


He’s in the backseat of a mint green ford Anglia, Dean and Seamus taking the reins at the front. The scenery rolls before him, the jagged skyline of Cottage Grove Avenue flitting seamlessly into Washington Park, its sprawling fountains seemed to shoot jets of water right into the sky. They take a turn down the street, leaving the U of C behind them as they cross the border into South Lake. The change in scenery is dramatic. 

The Housing Authorities has built this place merely four-five years ago, hoping to rejuvenate the area. Instead, some Irish immigrants moved in and before you knew it, the place was overrun by the Huffs, walls thick with graffiti, windows boarded up tight and deserted streets littered with garbage. They drive on.

Protect the innocents. Albus had told him. But in these dirty streets and unseen alleyways, who could tell the innocent from the guilty? _Only God perhaps. _

The sun was setting now and they stop a mile away from the location Draco had given him. Walking up to a pale yellow building, E-Mac greets them from behind the door, a heavy set fella with a chain of gold hanging from his thick neck. They shuffle in. 

The lobby smelled of piss, of garbage and smoke. The black sooted windows hinted of a fire that must have taken place, flowery wallpaper burnt at the seams from where its tenets were forced to flee. There’s also a giant hole where the lift should have been, so they take the stairs instead. Walking through rooms where the paint had peeled, they stop at one that overlooked the entire street. 

Dean dumps the bags on the floor and they set up quickly. Harry pulls out the Nimbus 2000 and fingers the shiny black cartilage with unbidden pleasure, feeling the solid weight of the rifle in his hands. On either side of him, Seamus and Dean hunker down, ready and in position. 

Surveying through a pair of binoculars, he spots Michael Corner and Quirinus Quirell hunched over a table in the opposite building. The Therins won’t be here until midnight, if Draco’s information proves to be correct, he’s got George and Teddy on standby three blocks away but that’s as much backup as he’d dared to bring. If this turns out to be a hoax then all the better, he won’t have to stay here a minute longer but if it isn’t…

Out of the four of them, he’s only sorry for bringing George along, who’s married and has a little girl now. It wouldn’t be right for her to grow up without a father. Still, George had insisted, no doubt hoping to get his revenge for his twin brother and who was Harry to deny him that right? That’s what they're all here for isn’t it? Revenge. All of them have the same reason to be here tonight. Even Teddy, his godson, despite being the youngest of them all, he had the least to lose.

A godfather at 25. Crazy huh? Sometimes, he couldn't believe it himself. He runs a hand down his face and paces slowly round the empty room. Men with nothing to lose make great weapons but poor soldiers, he’s got a bad feeling about all this.

The clock ticks away as minutes melt into hours. 

Then a loud bang rings out, followed by a shout. He glances through the binoculars again but the Ravens are still locked in the room.

“Pack up, something’s wrong.” he orders, eyes still trained on Quirell's serenely smiling face. A flurry of movement and they’re speeding back down the stairs two steps at a time. Back in the lobby, E-Mac slams through the door, clutching the bullet wound to his chest, fist soaked with blood.

“Ravens, fuck! They— they betrayed us… He’s coming, El Morro’s here tonight!” He finishes before slumping to the ground.

Behind him, Seamus swears.

“Out the backdoor.” He lifts the Firebolt from the waistband of his pants and cocks it, stepping over the dead body and sprinting towards the fire escape. “Go back to the car and take George with you, I’ll handle Ted.”

They nod without argument and head out, sticking close to the walls on the right. He takes the left on the opposite side, crouching low on the ground as gunshots rang through the air. Zigzagging through the backstreets, he stops outside a whitewashed set of steps leading up to the dilapidated apartment building where Ted was positioned. If his godson dies tonight, he’ll never forgive himself.

Taking a deep breath, he enters.  
  


—

  
A car passes on the street, barrels sniffing the air.

Harry drops to the floor just as a string of bullets shatter the windows, decorating the walls with scotch marks. They drive away quickly and Harry swears he catches a glimpse of curly black hair and high-pitched laughter echoing in the distance.

He hurries along. There’s no one in the room where Ted is supposed to be so he climbs further up to the 7th floor, panting heavily when he reaches the top.

A scream slices the hollowness.

He swears under his breath. It was Teddy's voice.

He prays to a god he doesn’t believe in and peeks over the wall. Just as he suspected, two death eaters stood guard just outside, each holding a shotgun.

If rifles had accuracy and a machine-gun had firepower, than a shotgun was somewhere in-between. A blast from where he's standing would knock him over the bannister and down seven flights of stairs, they knew what they were doing and they had come prepared, knowing he was going to be here tonight, just like they had in the bowling alley.

_Draco..._

He fixes a suppressor, switching the cylinder as quietly as he could before turning the lock sideways. Sweat rolling down his forehead as he aimed the nozzle with an outstretched hand.

One bullet and they’re both down. 

Another scream rips through the air.

He slams the door open, fingers squeezed tight around the trigger but not letting go till he could get a clean shot.

There, in the room stood Lord Voldemort, towering over Ted’s bruised and battered body. Beside him was Severus, a pistol aimed at the floor where Ted’s head was bleeding onto the exposed concrete. 

Snape turns to face him, raising his gun. He squeezes the trigger. 

Two shots ring out as two bodies hit the concrete floor. He exhales, rushing over to help Teddy but a hand clasps around his ankles, dragging him to the ground.

“Just like your father, stupid and reckless.” The ex-Order member mutters, voice nearly inaudible amidst the gurgling stream of blood pouring through his lips. He’s about to kick the hand away when Snape continues, a wretched cough dragging from his pinched lips. “Albus is in danger. All this was just a distraction, he’s sent the rest of the Death Eaters to the safehouse.”

Harry pauses, staring into the beady eyes of his once mentor with suspicion. This would explain the car that drove by but he’s not convinced, he's been lied to enough times today. “Why are you telling me this?”

Snape huffs in hateful contempt and shuffles into an upright position, clutching the hole in his neck with a wheezy sigh.

“You have your mother’s eyes.” is the last thing he says before his eyes shut forever. Beside him, Teddy groaned, heaving onto the floor. 

He's got a decision to make and if what Severus said was true, Harry doesn’t have much time left. Propping his godson on one shoulder, he makes the agonising trip down seven flights of steps and out of the abandoned building.  
  


—

  
He hijacks a random car just outside the apartment, hauling Ted’s lifeless body into the backseat. From down the street he spots Neville ambling towards him, a bloody handkerchief tied around his left knee.

“Neville?" He yells in disbelief, "What’re you doing here!” 

The buck-toothed Leon grinned at him, shuffling the Comet slung across his back. “Hermione told me what happened so I rounded the rest and came straight here, I got ya back Harry!”

“Thanks mate.” He claps a firm hand on Neville’s shoulder. Sirens wail from a block away and Harry turns once again in astonishment, “You didn't call the cops though… Did you?”

Neville at least, had the good sense to look sheepish “I did, I didn't think they would come! They never did before...”

Harry sighs, the problems just kept piling up. This meant that the middle-class residents in the next neighbourhood had heard the gunshots, soon this was place would be crawling with Feds. _Shit._

“Look, Ted’s in a bad shape. I’ve got to go back, okay?” He opens the car door and climbs in. Neville nods, face twisted in concern.

“You stay here and take care of things for me, yea? I’m putting you in-charge.” Neville nods again. 

“And whatever you do, don't come back to the house.” He purses his lips, contemplating the best way to phrase an adequate explanation without outrightly lying. “We’ll wait for this thing to blow over, lie low for awhile. Tell the others too. If you’re taken in, don't resist and whatever you do, don't return to the safehouse. You got that?” 

Neville nods for the third time, eyes bright with trust before waving goodbye and skulking off to join the rest who were still fighting.

“Don't go back to the safehouse!” He shouts in reminder. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Neville that he’s headed for jail, they all are. You don’t tip off the police and think you do them any favours, it doesn’t work that way. He's not too worried though, McGonagall will bail them out soon enough and prison would be the safer than being out in the streets, especially in the coming days.

He starts the engine and drives away, leaving behind the chorus of gunfire.  
  


—

  
Halfway through the drive, Teddy stirs, groaning in the backseat.

“Babbo...?”

Harry chances a look in the rearview mirror, the blood on the boy's forehead had congealed and a quick scan told him none of the blood on his clothes was his. That was a relief. “Aye, how you feelin?”

“Like I got run over by a truck” The sandy haired boy chuckles, inching into a sitting position. “What happened?”

“Voldemort’s dead." He keeps his eye on the road, swearing when a convertible cuts in front of him. "Turns out, he’s as human as the rest of us.”

“You killed him?” Ted smiled with pride at his nod of confirmation. “Serves that bastard right!”

This makes Harry frown, staring hard into Ted’s reflection “Why? You any happier he's gone?”

The silence drags, just shy of awkward. Ted looks pensive, like a child that was just admonished. 

“…No.” He finally says, looking downcast.

_Revenge, and redemption._ Harry thinks, is a never ending loop. Much like sin and innocence, neither is quite as mutually exclusive as one would like. Still a face needs a name, 'Good' and 'Bad'. It makes for a prettier picture that way and Harry always has an eye for pretty things. Besides, the lines have always been blurry for him, one who's never known normalcy ever since he was born. These days however, they're indistinguishable from each other, knotted red and green threads where a certain silver-scaled snake had deigned to cross each and every single one of his cabled mistakes. He'd been betrayed of course, no amount of self-delusion could make him think otherwise.

Strangely enough, he's not angry. Not even in the slightest. Instead, he feels weirdly at peace with himself, as if the the final puzzle piece had locked into place and the future was clear before him.

They drive the rest of the way in silence. He drops Teddy off at Noona Anna’s, right at the end of Cottage Grove Avenue. “Don't go back to the safehouse a’right?” He hollers from the driver's seat, the question is really a direct order. 

Ted nods, just once and they reach forward for a tight hug. “You be good yea? Listen to Noona till I get back.” The boy wipes his eyes on a sleeve, sniffling with a bloody nose. It’s as much as a goodbye as he’s ever gonna get.

Climbing back into the car, he drives off and doesn't look back.  
  


* * *

  
By the time he reached Godric’s Hollow, the sun was almost up.  
  


The blood orange skyline casting just enough to light to make out the jagged silhouette of the two-storied chalet. He slams the car door shut and pulls out the Firebolt, sweeping into the hallway.

It’s quiet, _too_ quiet. As he climbs up onto the second floor, he spots a trail of blood almost camouflaged on the deep maroon carpet. At the top of stairs he spots the dead bodies of Fabian and Diggle.

He steps over their broken faces and keeps walking. Down the corridor lay Bellatrix Lestrange and the Carrow siblings, bullet holes cut cleanly through their foreheads, a Leon trademark.

He pushes open the door to Dumbledore’s room, a giant suite that was empty except for a single canopy bed. The usually pristine white curtains were speckled with blood and so were the crisp bedsheets and fluffy pillow cases, darkened to a gorgeous pink where the red had soaked through in a billowy mess of organs. At the very top, lay the dead body of Father, his withered cancer-charred hand no longer the darkest thing in the room. 

_How brave they must be, killing an old man in his sleep. _He doesn’t bother to enter, instead following the trail of bloodied footprints past the drawing room and out into the gardens. 

White french doors and tiled linoleum floor give way to sprawling fountains and manicured greenery. Right in the centre was a large swimming pool, a continuous stream of bleached blue water flowing in from the mouths of four statued animals, a lion, an eagle, a badger and a snake. They seem to come alive as he crosses the threshold, bowing to him in greeting. On the other side of the pool stood a familiar figure. 

“Fancy a swim, _Potter_?”

He aims his gun, Draco aims his. A moment passes but neither of them make the first move. 

It's too much for him to bear so he asks, “Did you kill him?”

“Who else could have done it?”

It's not an answer, not one he's willing to accept. “You could’ve run away! You could’ve said no!”

Two shots, right at his feet.

They ricochet off the surface of the pool, sending ripples down his reflection. Even from this distance, he could see the stream of tears falling from misty grey eyes, mirroring his own. He recalls their last night in his apartment, the blazing warmth of skin upon skin, the frigid cold of winter soaked in their roots. _Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice._

“Cause I’m a fucking coward alright? Is that what you wanna hear?" Draco's body is shaking but his hand is surprisingly steady, he won't miss, not anymore. It's a gift, McGonagall had said and at the end of the day, it seemed it was the only similarity they'd ever shared. "I’m a fucking coward, just like you said!”

“That’s right!" He screams back.

He had hoped, God, he'd hoped. Maybe they could've pulled through, put their differences behind them, create something entirely new, something that was entirely their own, but that would've required change, a change so drastic it would alter their fundamentals beliefs and everything they'd knew about each other in the first place; the stolen glances, the giggling secrecy, their unified escapism. Monsters born of desperation, mutating only to spurn more nightmares from the abyss. 

"You’re a coward Draco Malfoy! You’re a coward, a liar and a cheat!” He hates this, hates how weak it makes him feel. Hates how well his mind is so accustomed to killing that it compartmentalises the vulnerability, that his fingers don't tremble like they should when he squeezes down on the trigger.

_But I love you anyway. _He fires.

A body falls into the pool, sinking in slow motion as it hits the aquamarine bottom. 

Harry is surprised to find that it’s his own. Red dye blossoms in the clear blue waters, the gun slips from his grasp, floating to the surface without him. He makes a grab for it but the glinting black metal eludes him. How could he have forgotten? Life was always meant to be fleeting. Living in the fast lane had corrupted his sense of being. Once upon a time he would have found that unpredictability to be helplessly alluring, now however, he almost wishes he'd continued living with the Dursleys.  
Then he wouldn't have met Draco Malfoy, wouldn't have to bear this sweet agony of despair, wouldn't have to die in a literal pool of his own blood. 

Pale hands haul him above the water’s edge and he hears someone coughing and spluttering beside him. He’s even more surprised to find that it’s Draco, a man hellbent on being contrary, even until the end.

He looks up at the sky. It’s almost daybreak, the bright orange puffs bleeding away to a dull lilac grey. 

“I wanted to leave, I wanted to go but— but I couldn't.” Eyes the colour of the heavens peer down at him in deep sorrow, silver hair shivering like scales in the wind. “I couldn’t… Not without you.”

He’s sleepy, so very sleepy. _Why is it so cold?_

“I need to go, I’m sorry.” Draco whispers, a lovely sly smile blooms across his tear-stricken face. “They need you, more than you’ll ever know.”

_Stay, please stay. _

“Goodbye Harry.”

_Don’t leave me, please. _

“Though you never belonged to me,"

_Just stay. _

"You were always my Chosen.”

Cold wet lips press against his own before pulling away quickly, sirens blare in the distance as the hands cradling his head slips into a tiny dot in the horizon, washing the world away in greyscale. The sun was high in the sky by now, a quiet vengeance from the gods above. 

Blood oozes from his body and into the earth below, beckoning him to an eternal slumber.  
  


He closes his eyes and dreams for the last time.

—  
  
_Boy, we're in a world war   
__Let's go all the wayyy _  
_Put your foot to the floor _  
_Really walk awayyy _  
_Tell me that you need me,  
__More __and more everydayyy _  
_Never let me go, _

_Just s__tay_

* * *

_-The End-_


End file.
